


Three Little Words

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aromantic, Asexuality Spectrum, Celebrimbor in Gondolin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27876390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: Celebrimbor lets slip an unexpected love confession, which leads to an early-morning conversation about definitions.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Maeglin | Lómion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	Three Little Words

The light of dawn filtered grey and muted through the curtains in Celebrimbor’s bedchamber. Maeglin sighed. He rolled over for what seemed like the thousandth time, facing away from Celebrimbor, staring into the farthest corner of the chamber where the gloom still lingered. Celebrimbor was snoring lightly beside him, still in a peaceful sleep as he had been for most of the night.

Maeglin, on the other hand, had tossed and turned for many hours, but had not been able to quieten his mind enough to fall asleep. Words spoken the previous night still haunted him, three little words that Celebrimbor had mumbled to him as he was drifting off to sleep.

 _I love you_.

Maeglin had not replied.

He knew what he was supposed to say. He knew that people did this all the time. Love was in every corner of the city, easy and natural like the warmth of the sun or the tinkle of fountains. It made Maeglin feel like he did not belong in his own skin.

He twisted onto his back. Celebrimbor’s snores faded away as the movement dragged him into wakefulness.

“This is early even for you,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep as he draped a lazy arm over Maeglin’s waist.

Maeglin laid gentle fingers on Celebrimbor’s forearm, absently tracing geometric patterns over his warm skin. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Is everything okay?”

Maeglin squeezed his eyes shut, keeping them closed as he spoke. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”

“Last night…” Celebrimbor echoed, brows drawing together.

“Just before you fell asleep.”

“Oh, that.” Celebrimbor’s cheeks coloured and he gave an embarrassed laugh. “Forgive me, Lómion, I did not mean to cause offense or – or pressure you. I speak too freely when I’m tired.”

Maeglin shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I just…”

His voice trailed off, the words stuck in his throat. He treasured this closeness that had grown between him and Celebrimbor, a slow, lovely thing like a seed they had tended over weeks and months that was leading them to… what?

“Tell me, please,” Celebrimbor said, soft and earnest. “I do not wish to see you upset, least of all over something I said.”

Maeglin turned in his arms, lying on his side and looking up into his bright eyes. “I can’t give you what you want,” he said, and found himself blinking back sudden tears.

Celebrimbor cupped his cheeks between his hands, looking at him urgently. “You give me everything I want.”

Maeglin’s eyes drifted away from Celebrimbor’s face to stare at the sliver of space between their bodies. He tugged on Celebrimbor’s wrists, needing some space, and Celebrimbor instantly let his fingers slip away.

“I don’t think I can feel the same way,” he murmured; before Celebrimbor could respond, he continued, speaking quickly, “I don’t think I want to make any vows, hold hands in the street, send sentimental letters when we are apart. I don’t think I want to make this… physical. I’m sorry, Tyelpë, I –”

“We don’t have to do any of those things,” Celebrimbor told him, and at his words Maeglin’s head snapped up; to his surprise (shock, _delight_ ), Celebrimbor was smiling, gentle and knowing. “I want to be with you, Lómion, whatever that entails.”

Maeglin was silent for a long time. When he replied, he chose his words carefully. “I thought, when you said you love me, that you wanted everything that goes along with it.”

“There’s nothing that has to go along with it,” Celebrimbor whispered back. “The lovers may sigh and the poets may write and the musicians may sing – and certainly my uncle Makalaurë would sing about love often and extensively, in the most fanciful of terms, though strangely enough he always seemed more devoted to his harp and his lute than any living being.” He shook his head, letting out a soft chuckle. “There are as many versions of love as there are people. Each of them will have their own unique definition of it, something that is neither right nor wrong but simply is.

“I meant what I said last night: I love you, Lómion, I know this in my heart.” He smiled and his face was a child’s face, bright and honest. “And I want to discover our own definition of it.”

Maeglin laughed suddenly, the sound bubbling up from deep in his chest. “I didn’t realise there were others who felt this way. Others like me.”

“Ah, I should have brought this up sooner,” Celebrimbor said, a little sadly. “If people spoke about it more openly, there would be less grief in the world.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Maeglin took Celebrimbor’s hands in his own, rubbing a thumb across his knuckles and the rings clustered on his fingers. “You brought it up now, which is good.”

He smiled, one of his rare unguarded smiles that only Celebrimbor ever saw. And when he spoke again, he did not tell Celebrimbor that he loved him too, not in those three words that felt leaden in his mouth; but he said it in his own way, in his own words, secure in the knowledge that Celebrimbor understood: “I want to discover our own definition of it too.”


End file.
